Writing

Ninja Frogs Revision #1

By Jane West

Fiction-General

Revised: 23-Jan-2011
Added: 23-Jan-2011
Canada

Average rating: 7
4 comments
Comedy Teen Highschool Ninja Hijack Abducted Duct Tape HIII YAH! Exciting Adventure

Arnickle Secondary School was a great school. The kids were obedient (sort of), lovable (not really), and perfect students (as if). That is, until the School Board ecided to implement a year-round schedule, uniforms, and move the Prom from it's regular golf course venue to the small gym. That was the breaking point. That was when a small and elite group emerged to put a stop to the injustice and crime of the public school system. The small group of Ninja Frogs.

SIDE NOTE: There are missing illustrations that cannot be uploaded.

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Chapter

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Chapter One:

The drama room was a mess. I mean, a complete, utter, total, and epic mess. The black painted walls were marred with a multitude of white chalk scribbles and doodles (the chalk being supplied by yours truly of course). The heavy, two story long curtains draping down at the far end of the room were tattered and constantly fluttering with the movement of many tag-playing students. The mobile metal staircase behind those curtains that led up to the prop room were staggering dangerously as someone hung off the rail like some sort of wild ape. I thought it might be Gallagher but who knows. The prop room door itself was wide open and I could hear the noisy spluttering from the cans of spray paint someone was using to graffiti the walls with. The giant wooden boxes we used for props were piled up to house a huge fort decked out with random blankets and clothing from the prop room and the prop trunk. A few heads popped out from between the blanket that served as a door. I had to admit that fort was impressive; Fort Knox, so aptly named after the sub that stood in the middle of the room with absolutely no control whatsoever over this horde of drama kids.
All in all, our drama room looked like so:



As you can imagine, it was quite the spectacle. I grinned and flicked the six light switches, instantly sending the entire room into thick darkness.
“Who did that?!” Mrs. Knox cried.
We all giggled as we heard her fumbling through the mess of carpet pieces decorating the floor. I hit the floor, crawling towards the safety of Fort Knox. I yelped as someone tripped over me.
“Oops,” Annie said, scrambling to her knees and hands to join me, “sorry.”
“Gus, Annie!”
We looked around for Trogdor’s voice.
“Over here.”
My night sight sucks. So I followed the sound of Annie shuffling over the floor, struggling to follow her through all the noisy confusion that was the rest of our class. Finally we came to the high, precarious stack of bleachers near the front of the classroom.
“Find a hiding place,” he whispered to us from the top level of the chairs. “When Knox finally hits the lights, she won’t find any of us.”
We grinned wickedly and turned, heading toward the prop trunk at the far end of the room that we knew would house both Annie and I quite comfortably. Within a minute or two we found it, opening up the lid and tumbling into the pile of props inside.
“Shush,” Annie said as I closed the lid.
We waited breathlessly, listening to Mrs. Knox continuing to fumble through the dark.
“Where is everyone?” she asked. “Kids! I swear! This isn’t funny! Mr. Finch will have something to say about this! I’ll tell Ms. Rockridge!”
We all scoffed silently. She wouldn’t tell the vice-principal. She never had before. She was one of the only subs that understood the real rules when it came to ‘teacher on call’ days (teachers got tired of being called ‘substitutes’ since it carried a negative connotation- who cares?). Anyway, moot point.

The Rules of A Class Taught by A TOC
Never sit in your assigned desk.
Never go by your real name unless otherwise acquainted with this TOC.
If there is a seating plan provided for the TOC, DESTROY IT.
Do not listen.
Do not pay attention.
Play Lava as often as you can. (Later I will give an in-depth description of that game).
Paper airplanes, spitballs, throwing of any object is always encouraged.
Make a WICKED fort.
Never just sit and watch the movie provided, always sneak off or at least bring a Nintendo to hook up to the TV. (Done it before, remember to make sure that BOTH controllers work BEFORE you bring it.)
Play as many practical jokes as possible.

Now I know these rules seem kinda harsh, and believe me, I’ve seen a sub cry, actually produce tears when faced with these kind of rules. But think about it. You spend almost ten full months in the same classes with the same teachers with a killer load of homework. And when your regular teacher gets a day off, shouldn’t you? Or at least an easy one?
Mrs. Knox was a veteran with our drama class. Turns out, today, she wasn’t up to the task. So we all sat in the small gym that lunch hour, legs crossed like kindergarten kids. From our previous display, maybe we were more like six-year-olds rather than sixteen-year-olds. Come on, give us a break.
Mr. Finch paced up and down the rows of kids, watching us with a stern gaze. We all feigned regret though a constant game of pass-the-rolling-the-eyes-look-to-your-neighbor was running rampant among us. While we were sitting there, twiddling our thumbs (such a funny expression- twiddling your thumbs, it always reminds me of Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum) I looked around at the familiar faces, some I had grown up with and others I had met in grade eight.
At the beginning of my row was Waldo, a grade eight acquaintance. Short but a force to be reckoned with. Her brown eyes were constantly alive with schemes and plots and her chestnut hair with a fluorescent purple streak always bobbed down the hallway with a purpose. Then there was Lemming, another grade eight prodigy. She caught my eye with her big blue ones, laughing silently and pointing at Mr. Finch’s back with a quiet snicker. I smiled back, quickly letting the expression die on my face when the vice-principal turned around and glared. A couple rows over was Vesper, my elementary school buddy. She too gave me a snicker, flipping her shoulder-length dark hair and glancing yearningly at the doors that led outside to the warm fall air. Behind her was Trogdor, he too from elementary school. He had something in his hand. A ball of crumpled paper. He waited, flashing me a grin before he chucked it at Finch’s back.
“Who did that?!” Finch growled, whirling to face us.
“What, Mr. Finch?” I asked innocently.
“Augusta, you know full well that you’re already in enough trouble as it is-“
“I didn’t do anything, sir.”
“She didn’t, Mr. Finch. Billy did it.”
I looked behind me to see Gallagher pointing at Billy, the most well-behaved kid of all of us (though I think that’s because he’s a little ‘off’ but whatever).
“Blame it on Billy,” Vesper sing-songed.
We all burst out laughing.
Finch’s eyes seemed to bulge for a moment as he looked at each of our gleeful faces, probably wondering how he could wipe the looks of joy from them. Then the bell rang, always punctual. We all hesitated as we started to rise to our feet.
He growled, his mustache trembling before he finally said through what I imagined were gritted teeth, “Go. All of you. And you better not skip the next class.”
“Never,” a group of us chorused. Sniggers rippled through the gym as we all funneled into one of the double doors and out into the crowded hallway. The plain beige walls seemed to close in on us as students poured in from their respective lunch time territories and headed to their identical gray, full length lockers (some, I’ve heard, have rats in them…ew).

Hallway Walking Etiquette of ASS
Grade Eights are the lowest on the food chain and therefore must MOVE or be trampled.
Walk on the RIGHT side of the hallway. This is a MAJOR hwy people, let’s treat it like one.
Avoid bumping into anyone with crutches or a wheelchair (yeah, we’re violent creatures, us highschool students, but it doesn’t mean we aren’t polite).
Teachers and other staff are to be avoided as well.
Do NOT stop in the MIDDLE OF THE HALLWAY. MOVE AND STAND TO THE SIDE.
Only run if you’re a senior, otherwise, you’ll get tripped.
If you’re lost, don’t ask another student for directions. Ask a staff member, they are legally and morally bond to show you the RIGHT direction. Ask me, for instance, where the gym is and I’ll most likely send you to the science wing. (Nothing personal, it gets kind of boring doing the same thing every day and we all need some amusement.)
Don’t walk in groups that span the entire length of the hallway, your arm will be broken from a more viscious version of Red Rover.
Don’t lay down in the middle of the hallway unless you have a good cause or are a senior (been there, done that) or you’ll be labeled as a freak (also been there, done that).
Get as many piggy backs and do as many cart wheels as you can. (Haven’t been there and done that, but my friend has. Covered the entire upstairs hallway in all of EIGHT cartwheels. I thought it was impressive...)

My next class, joined by Waldo and Snake Blisken, was socials. Socials Eleven, the course from hell. Not only is it the most jammed packed curriculum there is but most of it is hopelessly boring. How many videos on ‘over population’ can someone make? Honestly, how many millions of dollars go into making those things? Couldn’t that money be better used to help feed that starving African kid instead of filming him die? Half of us sleep through these videos anyway.
Listening to Mr. Conman talk about the different levels of government for the thousandth time that week, I sighed and rested my chin on my hand, staring at the many posters tacked to his walls. Mr. Conman’s room was the only classroom that wasn’t painfully ugly. The plain walls were hidden beneath a bouquet of rock posters and album covers. From Pink Floyd to Led Zeppelin, Michael Jackson to The Rolling Stones. My favourite was the Bridges to Babylon poster. A huge blue lion danced among sand ruins. I once asked Mr. Conman if I could have it when he retired. He said no. Apparently another student had already offered him a hundred and fifty bucks for it. Dang.
Mr. Conman had once compared ASS to a prison. Now, vaguely registering his continuos rant about the environment, I could kinda see it. A strictly set schedule that never wavered, having to ask permission to go to the bathroom. Having to be supervised at all times. An absurd dress code…

ASS’s Dress Code
No midriffs showing. (Understandable).
No shorts or skirts shorter than mid thigh. (What if you have long legs and mid thigh is actually pretty long? Like, I love shorts and mid thigh ones look odd on me...)
No spaghetti straps. (What? Are we in GRADE ONE? They want us to be mature adults. Can’t we be mature enough to handle SPAGHETTI STRAP TANK TOPS?)
No bra straps showing. (So what, no strapless shirts or summer dresses? NOT EVEN HALTER TOPS. They say that bra straps are ‘distracting’. Really, have you ever heard of a guy getting off on a BRA STRAP? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Waldo once pulled her bra straps out and dangled them out of her sleeves, asking Billy if he was ‘aroused’ by them. He said no. Case in point.)
No thongs showing. (Again, understandable. G-straps poking out? Not classy.)
No see-through clothing. (See, here I understand but I have a problem with it because of a certain TOC we had once in grade eight. She was a rather chunky lady with some sort of unfortunate baldness going on. And she had a crush on one of the boys in my humanities class, I’m fairly sure. I’ll give it to her that Pitt is cute, but come on. She’s in her mid thirties and he was… thirteen at the time. Gross. Anyway, back to the real point of the story. She was wearing this black velvet long sleeved shirt with a-drum roll please- SEE-THROUGH MIDDLE. From her armpits down, we could see it ALL. Every roll of fat and the specific creasing of her belly button. Now, I’m not saying I WANT see-through clothing to be allowed but if WE have to adhere to the other stupid rules of this dress code, so should the staff. Even if this one was just a ‘teacher on call’. By the way, we did apply all those TOC rules with her too. Ha.)

“Augusta?”
I looked up with a blank expression. “I’m sorry, what?”
Conman scowled, waving the paper he held out to me.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, taking the paper from his hand and passing the others back down my row.
“So we’re going to do a little survey today,” he said, going back up to his customary perch by the overhead projector. “I’ve given you a hand out with six options. Option one is the Federal Government. Two is Provincial, three is Municipal and four and five and six are various combinations of the three. On the overhead I’ll give you a category like… education and you will put down which government level you think is responsible for the running of that particular department.”
We all moaned.
“This isn’t for marks but see if you can guess some of them. I guarantee you that no one will get the twenty categories right. I’ve been teaching this course for thirty years and no one has ever gotten twenty out of twenty. I’ll give a million dollars to who ever gets twenty out of twenty on this survey…” Conman continued to rant about his amazingly tough survey as he fired up the trusty ol’ projector.
I watched with a smirk. I’d ace this survey, just to wipe that smug smile off Conman’s face.
Something you have to know about Mr. Conman is that he’s been teaching the same thing for thirty years. He recycles all his tests, quizzes, assignments- everything. The curriculum is the same. His classes are mirrors of each other. People will sell their binders after they pass the course to people who are taking it after them so they don’t have to do any notes or anything. It’s a great system. I like it. Works with Biology too. Anyway, so this semester has two Socials Eleven classes, block three and block four. I’m block three, Vesper is in block four.
I glanced up at the screen and saw the first category. Education. Provincial and municipal right? Wrong. Just Provincial.
There went my million dollars and the chance to show the smug Conman that he wasn’t so tough.
And the rest of the class continued on in a similar fashion. I got twelve out of twenty. But I did write all the correct answers down.
Now you may wonder why I did that. This assignment wasn’t for marks, so why correct it? It’s just some stupidly hard survey that no one has EVER aced. (I repeat EVER EVER NEVER).
Block four was taking the survey right after our class. Is the evil plan clear yet?
I grinned wickedly as I left the classroom, listening absently to Waldo and Snake talk.
“Stupid Conman and his survey,” Waldo muttered.
“He’s so cocky,” Snake agreed.
I continued to grin until I passed Vesper on her way to her block four Socials Eleven.
“Hey,” I said, catching her by the arm and pulling her to the side of the hall, “you’re taking this survey thing in class today and I want you to take my answers and fill them in, okay?”
Vesper frowned slightly. “Why?”
“Because I want to freak Conman out.”
She grinned and nodded, taking my answers and tucking them into her notebook.
After that class I waited by our lockers, wondering how the ultimate Conman had taken it. I smiled as I saw Vesper rushing down the hallway, a wide grin on her face.
“Auggie! Auggie!” she exclaimed. “Listen!”
And this is what happened:

Conman pulled out the dreaded survey with flourish, smirking upon his students who he knew were condemned to fail. After all, every student from the past thirty years had. He was so sure; he’d put a million dollars at stake.
He explained briefly and boasted lengthily before he let them complete the survey. After five minutes, he said with a huff, “Vesper, what is on your lap?”
Vesper looked up with a raised brow, “My planner?”
A startled expression graced Conman’s face. “Oh.”
The class glanced at her before they continued with the survey.
After another few minutes he said: “Pencils down! Let’s mark this and see who actually got better than ten marks. Now, who got the first five right?”
Vesper put up her hand hesitantly.
Conman raised his eyebrows. “Ooo, lucky guess?”
She shrugged.
“Anybody ten for ten?”
Her single hand raised again.
For a moment his eyes seemed to bulge. “Fifteen?”
Her hand didn’t fall.
Now his face resembled someone being strangled. “Twenty?”
Vesper nodded.
“What?!” he exploded. “How is that possible? Nobody ever gets twenty out of twenty! Those are a way too many lucky guesses. You must have been cheating!”
“Why would she cheat on something she doesn’t get any marks for?” someone asked from the back of the room.
Conman glared at the offender before looking at the two girls beside Vesper. “Check her binder and tell me if there’s a cheat sheet.”
The girls went through it, not finding my sheet of answers that Vesper had so cleverly tucked into the textbook.
Now his face was a bright red as the ultimate teacher of principle, the one who was so unshakably sure of himself, had been…dare I say it… wrong.
Vesper took her cue. “Mr. Conman? May I have my million dollars now?”
Conman’s gaze snapped up before he stammered, “That contract is invalid since I didn’t really mean it! An oral one anyway! It’ll never stand up in court! Besides, no one ever gets twenty out of twenty!”

“He ranted about it for the rest of the class!” Vesper laughed.
My smile broadened. “Excellent.”


Our school is fairly small for a highschool, less than seven hundred students. But it has character. And many different areas. To survive in ASS, one must know the dos and the don’ts, the where-to-go and the where-to-avoid. You must have a Hitchhiker’s Guide to ASS. And looky here, I might just have one for you.

A Hitchhiker’s Guide to ASS
First of all you come in through the front doors located by Dumbledore’s Lair. Here in the early mornings of groggy school days you are most likely to find a congregation of people from my grade. Mostly the same gang, morning after morning, sometimes with the random addition of someone else. Sometimes I even join them- especially after parking my dad’s pick-up on the curb and messing up the entire flow of traffic into and out of the school parking lot.
From here you may either go left or right. Let’s start with the right. Here you go past the Small Gym, so aptly named since it is the smallest of the two gyms. (I personally think it has psychological issues with that related to small-gym-syndrome, but that’s only my personal theory). Down past it you face the ultimate decision of right or left again. Left will bring you nowhere. To the Ghetto, actually, where pot fumes reign the atmosphere and the lockers are the most welfare of all. I’m surprised there hasn’t been any shoot outs there yet. Going left at that hallway by the small gym you go down towards the Home Base Foyer where the band, choir, and the BEST ROOM IN THE UNIVERSE all converge. Also is the giant yet totally useless (honestly, who ACTUALLY eats in there) FOOD room, a.k.a. the cafeteria.
You may be wondering why there is a random volcano outside the cafeteria. Well, it’s actually a small building in the foyer, a school store that sells stale gum and five cent candies. (If you’re lucky the clerk will be a student who failed math, or who is just having a bad day and feels like giving out free candy just to screw with the system). Above this school store is a second story leading to the weight room. A small platformish-landing thing is over top of the round school store that is always very warm. Hence it is called the volcano. Multiple things have happened in that volcano, including the formation of many brilliant storybook theatre plays, some silent audition rehearsals, some rock climbing, quite a few jazz sessions and probably one or two make out ones. Classy, eh?
Need I really explain Pervert 101? How about I just mention this: short shorts and I’m not talking about the students.
That is the mystical realm to the right of Dumbledore’s Lair. What happens when you turn left? You enter the serious part of the world of Arnickle Secondary School.
Right off the bat you’re faced with possibly one of the scariest rooms in the entire school: the library. The Hell Hole. Ruled by the spawn of Satan. Not to say our librarian is evil really, just plain mean spirited. Kids have been expelled, banned, shunned by her hand and her hand alone (her gloved hand, did I mention? Oh yes, she wears gloves…everyday. White ones). Not one book in that place wasn’t paid for by the blood of a student. You must sell your soul to the devil to pry a piece of literature from the clutches of ASS’s library. Do your best to avoid this room, I do.
To the right of the Hell Hole is a multitude of utterly useless classrooms, one of these being the Learning Center, a place for students who are having homework troubles get to go during one period a day. Now it has it’s uses, I admit, but since I’m not getting a free block in there once a day, I don’t get to enjoy those. What I do enjoy though are the weekly sour keys I get from Mrs. LC who teaches there. That is why her room is affectionately nicknamed The Candy Shop. Did the Candy Man song just start playing in your head? It did in mine…
Across the hall from the sweet Candy Shop is the Chokey, named after that dreaded closet from Matilda where the Trunchbull sticks naughty kids (and possibly rapes them, who really knows). In all seriousness though, this room looks like it should be TINY, after all, it’s a janitor’s closet. Yet I’ve seen inside it, something most students will never set eyes on, and it is actually HUGE. There’s a big table, some chairs, lots of shelving and a TV. Man, those janitors are the REAL rulers of the school.
Down the hall from the Chokey and to the left is Vesper’s Nemesis: Art. Now this room used to be legendary. It used to house the ultimate teacher of rock n’ roll and psychedelic paintings who taught History of Rock And Roll and showed us epically trippy movies such as the Yellow Submarine. Sadly this once-a-hippy-always-a-hippy teacher retired a couple years ago and now we are left with Mrs. Newbie. Art was never that stimulating a class to begin with. Let’s face it, half the class is filled with kids who just need a class to slide by with an easy C, the rest might possibly (if the teacher is lucky) be dedicated artsy kids who love to draw and are actually good at it. Well, Vesper is one of the latter. She thought that she might actually learn technique and style from that class, improving on her drawing and painting skills at least by an inch. It was not so. Most of her class consisted of potheads, skippers, or some other kind of slacker. And so she came to hate that class.
The rest of that particular wing of ASS is a menagerie of random classrooms. A cooking room thrown in somewhere, a humanities room, an active health room, and many others that I don’t even know about.
Let’s backtrack again (you do a lot of that when first exploring an unknown land) and retrace our meandering steps back to Dumbledore’s Lair. Now you’re facing the Hell Hole. Okay, we all on the same page? Good.
So take a left at the Hell Hole and go down the long Hallway of Counseling. First you pass Nazi Headquarters on the left (cough staff room cough) and then pass the Psychiatric Ward (it actually has it’s uses, the counseling room, I must say—it has NOTHING to do with the handy dandy microwave available at lunch, okay?). Then we pass the Class With No Rules… literally, it has no rules. None at all. No homework assignments, no due dates, no nothing. We once stood on the desks and jumped around the classroom (playing lava) and were not reprimanded.
Past that classroom is Pervert 102 otherwise known as Planning 10 Class. Sex, sex, sex, sex, STD’s. There, I said it. Now can we move on?
Now you come to a small foyer and then to a set of stairs on the left. Staying on our downstairs path, we enter the science-math wing of the school. Gag me with a spoon. Or calculator, either one works.
First we come to the corner where the Ask-Muncher’s Room is located, neatly tucked away. We call this particular science teacher the Ask-Muncher since whatever question you ask him he insists on chewing around the actual answer for about twenty mintues before he spits it back out at you. Plus, while he’s chewing it, he seems to ignore you, so you repeat the question again and again, seeming really stupid you think. Then, finally, once he’s chewed it into a lengthy, beat-around-the-bush-but-not-actually-get-right-in-and-pop-goes-the-weasel answer, he’ll spit it back out at you. Like a llama. Yay.
Moving on. Past that room is the Mole Hill on the left, so named because of the odd chemistry teacher who lives there. He loves moles. Chemistry moles that is, though he slightly resembles the animal himself. Not in the face, just the way his glasses magnify his eyes. He’s eccentric to say the least, but we love him. I’ve suffered many a heart attacks from the random smacking of a book on a desk, or slapping of a meter stick on the board. Or a random yell. Or even the squealing of his little squeak thing he uses for fire drills. You never know with Mr. Mole.
Beside the Mole Hill is Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium. Though it’s one of my favourite classrooms and teachers, I can’t stand actually learning in that class. It just doesn’t go through my head. Maybe it’s all the wonderful miscellaneous objects scattered about that catch my attention. Like the dried up foot of a crocodile mounted on a stick in one corner (a backscratcher, I’ve tried it, works pretty good). Or the KISS poster on the wall. Or the rubber chicken hall pass (can you spell unsanitary?). Or (this one is the WEIRDEST) the Abe Lincoln Mask hidden in some drawer near the back of the room. Whatever it is, there is magic sparkly dust in that room and it clogs my learning pores every time I go in there. Just what I need, Wonder Emporium zits. Yummeh.
Now we’ve reached the end of the hall and to our right lays The Dungeon. Not because that teacher intends to torture us or any other painful thing like that. Let me lay it out for you:

Math + Monotone Teacher + Always Hot Temperature + Endless Notes = Torture

Now, to be fair, this particular teacher is a Vietnam vet. We all appreciate the sacrifices he’s made for us and the service he’s given to this country and all that jazz (our school is a proud, eager participant in Remembrance Day) but come on, there’s only so much we students can take. When you’re trying to wrap your mind around such foolish and dumb concepts as math (most of which we'll never use again in our every day life) it’s made doubly horrible when the teacher teaching you has a minor case of tremors in his monotone voice and his hand is almost constantly resting in the warm, sweaty pocket of his armpit.
Before I get too off topic, let’s retrace again. Back past the emporium, past the rodent hill, past the question eater, all the way back to the stairs. Look at those stairs, hey? Two whole flights. Oh well, they have long windows on the landing in between the flights that overlook the track, maybe we’ll see some renegade skippers bolting across the field. (No one actually bolts when they skip, they more likely amble seeing as they have nothing to do… scratch that, Vesper and I bolted once—it was our first time skipping). So we’re to the stairs, yes?
Alrighty, up we go. Don’t trip. You’ll look like a noob (once again, been there, done that, multiple times). Now we’re going up the stairs and we come out to…(cue mariachi band) El Salvador! Now since I was dumb and insisted on pursuing my French career, I was never blessed with a class in El Salvador but I’ve heard stories and Vesper absolutely adores that class (most of the time). Hey man, I know some Spanish, okay? Hola, habla espaneol? No, no I don’t.
Right beside the spanish haven is the french… not nice place. Le Pigpen, ruled by Mme. Old Major. (Those of you who have suffered through Orwell’s depressing and sadistic novella of Animal Farm may understand, especially if you’ve seen the movie—the puppeteering wasn’t thaaaaaaat bad.) This room has been graced by many famous faces, including yours truly, Waldo, Ganeric, Christmas, and Moneypenny, many, many, many years in a row. Infamous memories have come from that room which is why I don’t particularily hate it though I am glad I’ll never have to go in again. Je deteste le francais, il est trop difficile.
Now across from this room is the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame (and a little shame). This is Conman’s kingdom, decorated with countless posters of countless bands. Apparently he has so many flammeable posters that he’s violating some code because of the huge fire hazard. Whatever, Conman does what Conman does. And besides, how would we get through the endless hours of World War I without that trippy Michael Jackson poster? Or the Jimmi Hendrix Voodoo Soup one where the spoon looks like a seahorse? Thank you, Mr. Conman, for making such an unbearable course load bearable.
The last place I will show you is The Cauldron (ironic that it’s located directly above The Dungeon, hey?). This room is used for so many different classes, it’s not even funny. My english class for one, a psychology class, a humanities class, and even a music class (they once blasted Bohemian Rhapsody while I was writing a french test a room over and I absolutely, for the life of me, could NOT concentrate—mama mia! Mama mia! Let me goooo oooo oooo oooo oooo! See?). Why is it called The Cauldron? I’ll tell you: Macbeth. What a wonderful Shaskeperean play…cough cough NOT. Tragedy, killing, bloodshed, must we relive the dark ages all over again? The greatness of the play doesn’t matter though, what matters is how our class got through it. Answer: we acted it out. Almost every scene. It was epic. Mint. The very first scene was the one with the three witches cackling and making a brew in a cauldron. Well, our english teacher actually brought a cauldron-ish bucket thing and brought an assortment of ingredients: Jell-o, caramel sauce, sparkles, oatmeal, and some other sauce-ness. So you can imagine what our three ‘witches’ did. They mixed it all together and proceeded to throw it onto the ground. It smelled in there for the next week. Seriously, it was the grossest thing I-----

“WHAT IS THAT?!?!?!?”

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Marissa

March 16, 2011 at 7:08 PM PDT

awesome! those were some good times

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Emadev

January 24, 2011 at 10:51 PM PST

This is brilliant work. I can imagine the scenes in my mind as I read. Yes, and funny too. Like it!

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Reader

January 24, 2011 at 7:27 PM PST

Incredibly funny! Almost too real to be fiction! I sounds like you have experienced some this in your real high school!? Anyway, could you upload the pictures in the illustration section of the website?

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clara

January 23, 2011 at 9:11 PM PST

THIS IS GENIUS.
Brilliant.
And accurate.